


Tantalus

by lferion



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Community: hlh_shortcuts, Disturbing Themes, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Immie, M/M, No Sex, Recovery, original characters advancing the storyline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-14
Updated: 2008-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-07 08:19:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if escaping is the <em>easy</em> part?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tantalus

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Tessa Rae in the 2008 HLH_Shortcuts fest.
> 
> Tes requested Duncan/Methos slash or gen, "First time stories. Action, drama and plot. Hurt/comfort." There's a real element of _challenge_ in plausibly damaging an Immortal. I hope I rose to the occasion.
> 
> This story would not have gotten written without the encouragement, brainstorming, hand-holding, commentary and detailed nit-picking of Reshcat and Auberus. Temve provided a very useful outside the fandom point of view and caught the rest of the double spaces. Thank you so much, ladies. I could not have done it without you.
> 
> I am not a medical professional, and in writing this, I failed in several aspects of research. The errors are all my own.

From out of the dark came the rush of feet, the scuff of bare sole on leaf-mould, the quick, harsh breath of exertion, imperfectly stifled.

_Run run, get away, live to fight another day_

Behind him sounded a rattle like drums, coughing and shouting and a high piercing shriek that no bone pipe had ever made, only a throat of metal, tongue and teeth of brass. His feet were too soft for the ground, stones and roots lurking under the fallen leaves, hungry for his blood. If he fell the hounds would catch him, their claws would rend his bones, deaden his mind, his muscles, and he would never escape the fire in his veins.

_Flee the merry month of May - fire burns the doomed who stay_

He shook his head fiercely, baring his teeth to the chill air that flew at him as he ran. Not Beltain: Samhain. The light and noise climbed behind him, wind overtaking him, pushing him faster, blinding him with bitter grit, heat curling the hairs on his skin, crisping the dead leaves that shivered and whirled about him. One chance. One moment. One hope to make his body a blade and cleave the poisoned earth, the air that suffocated, the water that parched, the stone that lifted from his belly and breast only to fall, shattering, again and again and again.

_Pay the piper lest he play a tune to death to make him stay_

There was something he should be laughing at — the childish chant, the ridiculous words. But he had no breath to laugh, hardly enough to run. Blood beat high in his throat and he tasted metal. His feet flinched from the earth, his hands spasmed, reaching before him in the dark. Something he should be missing, remembering, holding on to, a weight that wasn't there, but the imperative to escape swept all before it. Thought shredded like thin cloth on the twigs and thorns, baring his spirit to the air. Stones and the skeletons of grass slashed ribbons from his soles. Let the Hunt feast on his leavings, while substance fled.

_Run run, get away, live to fight another day_

The baying of the red-eared hounds gradually fell silent as he ran, subsumed by the rasp of air dry and cold in his mouth, the scent of grass and reed-edged water. The trees no longer reached out root to trip and branch to catch, but stood in ranks, warding a path that breathed apple and acorn. Sweat stung his eyes, ran chill down his flanks. His back remembered the burn of salt in wounds renewed so often that they failed to heal. The fire in his veins had spread to his skin, leapt before his eyes and danced, flickering before him. It led him to a little cliff of stone, pillared and roofed with resin-sweet wood. His feet stumbled down to snag on smooth and grassy earth. Another cliff appeared before him, stepped sheer and insurmountable. He caught the pillar, stopping, clinging, but all strength had fled. His hands slipped down the bole and he crumpled, utterly spent.

The light multiplied, sang cool and safe and sacred ground.

He let it take him.

* * *

  


* * *

"Myrtle! Elliott! Iselin! Come quick! There's a naked man on the porch, bleeding on the mat!" Dorcas had a voice on her, Iselin had to give her that. She also had an imagination, but _something_ had certainly hit the front door with a thump.

Iselin grabbed her bathrobe and shoved her feet into her slippers, tying the sash as she poked her head out into the hall. Myrtle was fluttering down the stairs and she could hear Elliott rumbling and grumbling to life in the parlor, where he no doubt had been napping in front of the fire. Iselin followed Myrtle down the stairs at a less breakneck pace, and looked out of the window onto the porch. Myrtle was clinging to Dorcas and peering over her shoulder out the window on the other side of the door. A long white foot, bloodied and cut, lay in the square of light cast by the hall lamp through the fanlight. The rest of him was in shadow, but it certainly seemed as though Dorcas had reported the situation accurately. There _was_ a naked man bleeding on their porch.

Well. Leaving him to bleed there wasn't going to help anyone, now, was it? Iselin shooed the others away from the door and opened it. Elliott had finally taken down the summer screen door just last week, so the light spilled onto the porch unimpeded. Chill night air curled around her ankles, and in the distance beyond the orchard the sky was stained with a faint red glow. The Seifert place was over that way, nearly at the end of the Valley, the estate that had been bought by those unpleasant city-folk — called themselves 'the Sons of Balor' or somesuch. Had he come from there? She knelt down to get a better look at the man. There was a faint whiff of char mixed in with the human smells of sweat and blood and fear, as well as a bitter note she did not recognize. But his brutally short hair was unsinged and there were no burns that she could see in the light that was available to her.

"Elliott," Iselin called over her shoulder to the knot of people hovering in the hall, "Go get a lantern, and somebody tell Caroline to heat some water and get a bath going." She knelt down near his head and put a gentle hand to the vein at his neck. He twitched at the touch, but did not wake. His skin was papery, dry under her fingers, the pulse quick and thready. He had good bones, though too visible even in the awkward light. Wherever he had come from, they hadn't been feeding him right. If it was the Seifert place he'd escaped from — blood on his feet, blood on his back, not to mention actually stark naked, not even a stitch for his privates, skin too pale to have seen the sun anytime recently; escaped from something, that was sure — he'd come miles over rough ground, barefoot in the dark. It was truly astonishing that he had found them.

The light grew stronger, the shadows swinging wildly. Elliott had the big barn-lantern lit and turned up high. "Here you are Isey," Elliott's voice was rough and soft in her ear. "An' I brought 'm a blanket. Cold out."

"Thank you," Iselin said, almost absently as the better light revealed more of their unexpected guest. "Hold the light up so I can see if he is still bleeding." The blood on his back was old, brown and dry, and there seemed to be layers of it, streaks and stripes that crossed each other, but nothing glistened fresh. She couldn't tell scab from skin beneath the grime, but a light brush of her fingers along the bumps of his spine found nothing to alarm. His feet and hands were something else again. Black smudges on the planks showed his progress across the wide porch, and his hands curled limp at the ends of his outflung arms. He had not even tried to catch himself in his fall. A deep scratch at his wrist beaded and dripped a single fat drop as she watched. He had come cross-country, judging by the stains and scratches, and the bloody dirt on his palms, his knees, showed he had fallen more than once.

Not just escape, but _determined_ escape. Iselin did not even want to think of how badly damaged his feet must be. Or what kind of horror it was that he had been running from. "You're safe now," she found herself murmuring, "you're safe here." He couldn't hear her, she knew, but she felt better speaking as if he could. She cupped a hand to his sharp-boned face; even deeply unconscious his jaw was tense. "We'll take care of you. They can't get you here."

Anger burned in Iselin's breast and determination narrowed her eyes. How could anyone countenance doing the kinds of things that would reduce a fellow human being to this kind of strait? Well, he _was_ safe now, and they _would_ take care of him. If this was what was going on — and there were goings on, they'd known that ever since those people had moved in several years past and put up walls, not just fences — then it was time and past time they did something about it. She sat back on her heels and looked up at Elliott. Myrtle had ventured as far as the doorframe, and even Jameth had crept out, his little black nose quivering at the unusual smells. "Myrtle, take the lantern. Elliott, help me get him inside. Nothing seems broken, so I think it's safe to move him. He certainly can't stay on the porch."

The blanket was one of the horse-blankets, prickly wool stout enough to carry a man. Between them Iselin and Elliott got him shifted to the cloth while Dorcas fetched Toby and Lane from their cottage (glorified shed, really, but it wasn't as though they did more than sleep in it, if you could call it sleep) out back. His feet were as bad as she had feared: cuts scored deep, skin in tatters, blood still welling sticky and slow through the plaster of leaves and mud. But his back looked better — scrapes and scratches more than actual cuts it seemed. She was still careful to make sure the fabric wouldn't shift along his shoulders when they lifted him. He was a tall man, and the blanket short. His feet would have to stick out over the edge because it was more important that his head be supported. They'd just have to be careful, that was all.

The boys came promptly, pants loose around their hips and feet shoved sockless into boots, the color in their faces and disorder of their hair saying clear as anything that they hadn't been _sleeping_ in the bed Dorcas had roused them out of. Well, they could get back to it once they'd helped settle their guest in the house. Iselin directed them to the blanket corners at the man's feet while she and Elliott took up the ones at his head. Between them they got him through the door. The corner by the kitchen was more tricky, but he didn't stir even when his feet jostled against the step going down, leaving a long red smear on the pale wood. Iselin winced for him, but didn't let her grip falter. He was heavier than he looked, but not as heavy as he ought to be.

Caroline was standing by the door to the back rooms that had been Georg's, eyes wide and hands to her mouth. But she'd drawn the bath and brought in a heap of clean rags along with the house first-aid kit and towels, and spread an old sheet on the broad window seat near the bathroom. Under the anger that still fizzed in Iselin's veins at the monsters who had caused the damage they were dealing with was an equally fierce love for the people, the family — misfits and characters all — who had taken her in when she had been in need. Iselin looked down at the drawn and dirty face of the man in the blanket, all angles and nose. It was the least she could do to give that same care in return to this person who needed it even more than she had. Whether he was with them for a day or a year or the rest of their lives, he would be safe here.

It wasn't until she heard the rumble of assent from Elliott and saw the nods — sharp, determined, shy — from everyone else that Iselin realized she had spoken aloud. She nodded in return. Her wrists were beginning to feel the strain of gripping the cloth. He was theirs now, and they had a job to do.

"Well," Caroline said softly, "let's get him clean, and settled. Not much more we can do until he wakes up."

With a word and a glance, the four of them lifted the blanket-stretcher the necessary few inches and lowered the man gently onto the window seat. Caroline drifted after them. She tucked a rolled towel under his head, supporting his neck. Her hand hovered a moment before lighting briefly on his forehead. The shape of his skull was a hard curve, unsoftened by the dark fuzz of shorn hair. Caroline's hand was small and pale against it, but Iselin knew the strength that was hidden there. She hoped there was still strength under that hair, too. There must have been, for him to make it to them.

"Thank you," Iselin said, looking back up at the others. They nodded back as they left the room. Lane and Toby's hands were laced together, shoulder's brushing. Iselin smiled fondly after them, and turned her attention to the job before her. Best start with the feet first, as they were the most damaged.

A man looked terribly defenseless, lying naked on a rough brown blanket, a towel for a pillow and his ankles propped up on the rolled remains of what had once been a fuzzy pink bathrobe. Before Iselin could ask, Caroline laid another towel across his middle. They would have to wash there too, but until then, it gave him a bit of dignity. She was avoiding what was needful. She took a deep breath and sat down at the end of the window seat, spreading a towel over her lap and dipping a rag into the basin Caroline had set ready. Feet were awkward, and as she cleaned the dirt and blood from the lacerated soles she was glad he was unconscious, and hoped - hard - that he hadn't done himself permanent injury. At least the blood ran clean once the dirt was gone, and even that was slowing. They were very raw, though she had done her best to salvage what skin she could, and the water in the bowl had needed to be changed more than once. She applied peroxide with a generous hand, wincing in sympathy for the stinging, and then soothed on some of Myrtle's ointment, daubing the green-smelling stuff carefully over the whole surface. He had beautiful bones, long and elegant.

Caroline took over with the gauze and the tape. Her bandages were always the neatest, and they never fell off at awkward moments.

Iselin watched her layer and wind the gauze with firm competence, binding the torn flesh snug and tight: pressure to halt the bleeding, support to help encourage healing, protection from the dust and dog-hair and the rough weave of the blanket. Jameth was nosing at his hand where it lay at the edge of the cushion. The long fingers twitched at the tickle of whiskers. His nails were as black as the little dog's nose. Iselin took that as a cue to get on with the job at hand. She took up a fresh cloth and began working on his hands and arms.

He wasn't — quite — as injured as he had looked or as Iselin had feared, in the lantern light on the porch. She and Caroline worked in silence for a time, and the water in the basin again grew dark and murky as they sponged and wiped the rest of him clean. Until he woke, they could have no real idea of who he was, or what other hurts he might have that they could do anything about. That there was hurt to his spirit was a certainty, and the bitter edge to his sweat, the odd raw patches — round and angry and on-purpose looking — that marked him at wrist and breast, neck and groin, hinted at dangerous substances brutally applied under duress, invoked images of sinister, faceless tormenters in lab-coats from tales of horror. Mysteries beyond their eclectic pool of book and farm learned skills, most likely. But those were worries for the morning.

By the time they had turned him and attended to his shoulders and back, Dorcas had made up the high, long bed that had been Georg's pride with fresh sheets and blankets as well as a down comforter and one of her quilts. When she bustled back in (Dorcas was the only person Iselin knew who could bustle _quietly_, but bustle she did) with a tray of warm milk and buttered bread, Iselin was just finishing patting dry his cropped hair and he was stirring vaguely in her arms.

He wasn't awake enough for speech, though he responded a little to their voices, and Caroline was able to coax him into taking a sip or two of water. They didn't quite dare try the toast, and he'd turned his head from the milk. Between the three of them, they got him into the bed without incident, and Dorcas refrained from commenting on his 'generous endowments' while she tucked him in, though the corner of her mouth twitched with the effort of restraint. Fed and healthy, it was obvious he would be a lithe and well-built man, but there was far too little flesh on his long bones. He was asleep again almost before Dorcas finished. Iselin thanked her and promised to drink the posset. Caroline said she would see Dorcas to her bed, and left Iselin with a sympathetic smile and a gentle touch.

Quietly, Iselin folded the horse-blanket and tidied the few things Caroline had not. She might be able to get Elliott's socks done while she sat up.

It wasn't until some time later that it occurred to her that they knew nothing about him, and just because he had been hurt, held, misused, didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. Could be dangerous to them. Even so, Iselin stood by her instincts, the decision she had made on the spot and the feeling that they were doing the right and good thing. She propped herself in the corner of the window seat under one of the afghans that lived there, knees up and chin in hand, gazing out at the spangle of stars visible through the not-quite-closed curtains. It was very late now, and the sound of his breath was soft in the deep quiet. She would just rest her eyes for a moment, then get going again on her handwork.

When Iselin woke, it was just rising morning, motes of dust dancing in the streak of light that peered through the gap in the curtains and the usual commotion of poultry in the yard. Her first thought was for her patient, their refugee. She'd only meant to nap, not actually sleep — what if he woke and needed something? — But sleep she had, and soundly too. The crease in the throw-pillow in the armchair and the second afghan tucked around her shoulders told her that Dorcas or Caroline had sat watch, though. He hadn't been unattended.

Unaccountably self-conscious, Iselin looked over at the bed and the man in it. He was watching her from eyes deeper than a well, still as a lizard watching a hawk. No telling how long he'd been awake. No telling if he even knew who he was or remembered what had happened to him.

Iselin scrambled off the window seat, tugging her robe back in order and letting the afghans slide in a heap. His eyes tracked her movement. That was a good sign. She took the few steps to the bed, moving slowly until she was at his side. A muscle jumped in his jaw, but he held her glance and didn't shift back to the wall, which was another good sign, she hoped. His eyes were green and gold, clouded with what might be pain, or confusion, or both, his knuckles white on the edge of the coverlet.

"I'm Iselin. This is Hallowdell, west of Hope and not far from Harrison Hot Springs. And you're safe here." She held her breath.

He blinked, a sweep of ridiculously long, dark lashes, and his mouth opened but for a moment nothing came out. "I'm ... A..Adam? ... Alun?" His breath quickened and his brows drew down. "Ben? No. M..Matthew?" No, not that one." He stopped again, swallowing. There was a water jug on the bedside table, one of Myrtle's squat pottery cups beside it. Iselin filled the cup part way and helped him take a few small sips. She didn't have to tell him to go slowly.

Iselin had the oddest sense that the difficulty was not remembering his name, but trying to find the right one among too many choices. She found herself breaking in before he could stumble any further down the list. "We don't need to know who you were, just what to call you. Adam's good."

"Alun," he tried again, tasting the syllables. He closed his eyes, pondering. "Alun Adams. That works." He gave a little nod, as if settling the idea, then looked up at her again. "Do you know ... how I got here?"

"We found you on our porch last night. You'd run your feet to ribbons and you didn't have a stitch on." If he was aware that he was still naked under the covers, he gave no sign of it. "Is there anything you can tell us? We want to help, if we can."

His fingers moved against the surface of the quilt — a cheerful, garish thing in lime and dandelion with pink and orange accents — and his eyes dropped to follow the pattern of spirals that were also cats. His voice was low, and now his words came measured, as if he were testing the air to see if it would hold them, his breath carry them. "I don't know. I was running from the hounds. There was a break, in the power, the gate was open. I…" He squeezed his eyes shut and groped at the air with one hand. The deep scratch on his wrist was now only a faint pink line. His breath was coming short and hard, and there was a look of intolerable strain in his drawn face, desperation in his voice. "Is this real? Are you really real? Am I really here, and not ...?" His voice broke, and Iselin folded his gaunt and searching hand between her own warm palms. The touch seemed to give him an anchor, a measure of ease to his distress.

Iselin felt the coal of outrage at the monsters who had caused that distress reignite in her breast, but she didn't allow it to enter her voice, keeping her tone gentle and assured. "I'm real. I'm Iselin Elaine Farris-Faraday, and that's a name I'm sure you couldn't make up. You are really here, safe at Hallowdell, and we don't have a gate — well, we do, but it's to the cow-pasture, and one to the hen-yard, — but not one like they put in at the old Seifert place, no walls around the orchard or anything." She took a breath and slowed down. He was starting to shiver, or maybe it was tremble, but he'd opened his eyes again, and seemed to be seeing _her_ and not a nightmare. "We're — well, I suppose you could call us a kind of a retreat, a sanctuary, an artist's colony or something, only none of the art is really traditional, though Georg came closest, but he's gone now. And we don't even have a fence on the property line, because when we finally got the deed, Myrtle and Dorcas and Caroline _and_ Elliott cast a circle around the whole place, and took down the wire fencing (except in a few places, like the cow-pasture), though they left the posts, so they could tell where the line _was_, and we walk the bounds every Equinox. Um." She stumbled to a stop. Why on _earth_ was she telling him all this? But he wasn't shaking any more, and his hand was beginning to warm up a little.

"And we won't let anything get you. You're safe here." Though if someone really came after him with guns she didn't know what they would do. But they would do _something_. Alun was one of them now, for as long as he wanted to be.

"Sanctuary," he said softly, almost wonderingly. "Holy Ground." The relief in his voice broke her heart. Abruptly he slumped back down against the pillows, the rigid tension draining out of him like water, and he was asleep almost before Iselin could let go of his hand.

"Yes. Yes, it is." She murmured as she tucked the quilt warmly around his angular shoulders. Then she straightened her own and marched into the kitchen to get a head-start on the day's work. Dorcas already had the kettle on.

'Alun' slept on and off all day, sometimes nearly unconscious, at others dreaming and restless, though he never cried out, and whenever he woke it was with the same wary, watching stillness Iselin had already seen. Not even Caroline could get him to eat anything, though he was polite about refusing. Toby, oddly enough, had more luck coaxing liquid into him — herb-honey tea and barley-water for the most part — a few sips at a time and a sturdy hand on his back when he coughed trying to keep it down. He seemed to enjoy being read to, though he flinched from Elliott's heavy step and cold-roughened voice. When Elliott realized that, he tried to walk and speak more softly, with indifferent results, but it was the thought that counted, and Iselin loved him for it.

When she and Caroline changed the bandages on his feet after the noon meal, Iselin was pleased to see improvement. Though they were obviously still painful, raw and red, there was no sign of infection and the salvaged bits of skin seemed to be adhering as they should. He bore the process remarkably well, she thought, considering how much it had to hurt. The other cuts and scratches were much better in the warm afternoon sunlight, making Iselin wonder for a moment if they really had been as extensive as she had thought. Not that it mattered. If his skin healed quickly it was all to the good.

But damage to his skin aside, by evening it was apparent he was very ill indeed.

As night fell his temperature climbed, and he hardly seemed to see them, much less recognize any of them, though he'd been calling them all by name since morning. He cringed from any sound of shod feet on the wooden floor. One moment he was drenched in sweat, the next shivering uncontrollably. Not even water would stay down, and long after they stopped trying he was racked with dry heaves. Myrtle dug deep into her herbal pharmacopeia and at last concocted a faintly aromatic mixture that brought him some ease when used to bathe his temples, throat, the back of his neck. Toward morning he fell Into a heavy sleep, and Iselin and Caroline, again the last ones up, breathed a sigh of relief. This time Iselin sent Caroline to bed and sat herself in the comfortable (but not _too_ comfortable) chair to watch over his sleep. She wished there was more they could do to ease his suffering.

Iselin had nearly finished Elliott's second sock when she heard the quiet rasp of his voice.

"Oh gods and little green apples."

She glanced up; he was awake. She put her knitting aside.

"Why won't you just kill me and have done with it?" He had pushed the covers back, revealing pale skin damp with sweat. He wasn't speaking to her; she wasn't certain he knew she was there.

Iselin reached for the towel and the herb-soaked cloth. She heard herself ask equally quietly, "Is that what you want? To be dead?" She turned to look at his face, trying to read his eyes. He was watching the stars out the window. There was frost at the corners of the panes.

"What? Oh, no. And unfortunately it wouldn't do any good. I'd just wake up again in the same place in the cycle." His eyes turned to her, heavy but unclouded.

She felt a surprising rush of relief at his immediate answer, though the second half of it made her wonder if he was really as lucid as he sounded. Well, if that were the case, she could play along. Flights of fancy were no stranger to her, living as she did with gamers and writers and people who talked to trees. "I suppose you are immortal, then, and have lived for millions of years." She said lightly as she blotted gently at the sweat beading his skin.

A smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, turning the shadows of pain to lines of laughter. "Only thousands, not millions. Humans haven't been on the planet for millions." His banter sounded perfectly sincere, even matter of fact.

Iselin smiled back, a note half teasing, half serious entering her voice, "Well, if you are so old and wise, how did you get yourself in this predicament?" If his face and chest were this wet, the rest of him probably was too. She lifted the covers all the way off and ventured further with towel and cloth. He really was beautifully made, despite the gauntness of privation and illness.

The smile faded a little, but did not vanish. His gaze was again on the ceiling beams. "I didn't look where I was going, and I didn't move fast enough; thus Eidyn Llawgad slew Aneiron. Only it was capture, not kill. And he only _thought_ he was a great lord of men. He went to great effort to bend those he considered his followers and inferiors to his will. It even worked. For a while. But lightning is a chancy servant, and no-one's toothless hound. Fire set me free, but his poison, being also fire, does not burn, and must be sweated out."

She had reached his groin. He neither flinched nor looked as she took his privates in hand and washed them with gentle care. "Who was Aneiron?" Iselin asked into the little silence. He was uncut; cleaning him a more delicate process. One could almost believe he had known the attentive skill of the fabled Roman body-servants, he was so easy to bathe. Awake, anyway. (Mika Waltari and Victor Mature had a lot to answer for, not to mention Auntie Pru's collection of sword and sandal epics.) She didn't like to think it was because he had been this ill and helpless before – and long enough to have learned how to be stoically attended to by orderlies and over-worked nurses.

"A bard and the son of a bard, a warrior and a leader of warriors, a lover and one well beloved. In other words, a man with a quick mind, a fast blade and a truly talented mouth. But enough of legend. What brings so dedicated a votary of Hygeia and Asklepios to this fair northern valley?" The Greek was as effortless on his tongue as whatever the previous language had been.

She laid his privates back in their nest of dark curls and moved on to his thighs. A very faint tremor moved under the skin. His respite was coming to an end. It was the dark hour before dawn. If he could be thousands of years old and laugh at the face of death, she could speak the naked truth. Perhaps it would heal _her_. "I was running away. From, oh, all kinds of things: expectations I couldn't live up to, survivor's guilt, grief, loss, loneliness. I thought I wanted to die, just to make the pain stop, and I was looking for death. I found Caroline and Hallowdell instead." She'd reached his ankles. Best to leave his feet alone in their tidy Caroline-wrappings. She put the towel and cloth aside and settled the covers back over him before looking up at his face. The tremors were going to turn into shivers any time now.

He had brought his eyes down from the beams and was looking back at her with a bottomless gaze. For a moment she was caught, paralyzed and terrified, falling in limitless darkness, an unimaginable weight of time and grief and distance, then he blinked, her heart thudded, and his eyes were no more wild than the orchard out back. He said, very gently, "And now? Are you still looking for Death?"

"No," Iselin said slowly, tidying away the basin and used cloths "I'm not." But was she? And what would happen if she said (admitted) that she was? The sheer surreality of the whole conversation struck her and she turned to him with hands on hips and demanded in a low, intent voice thick with conflict and tinged with despair, "All right, mister 'thousands-not-millions of years old,' how _do_ you do it? How do you keep going when everything dies? When nothing stays the same, when you can't be what anyone wants you to be? How do you stay yourself and still go on?"

He was starting to shiver in earnest now, but his eyes were still bright and present. Daring her to keep going because she wasn't done yet, she hadn't asked the real question yet. She felt like she was shouting, if you could shout in a whisper.

"Maybe you really are thousands of years old, and maybe you aren't and maybe you're just some guy who fell into bad company and got out again and landed on our porch, but how do _you_ keep going? What makes you fight and not just give in? And _don't_" abruptly she wound down and sat with a thump in the bedside chair, "tell me 'it's a mystery' or you don't have an answer. I don't want 'the' answer. I want _your_ answer."

He chuffed a rueful laugh that set him coughing, choking on air. Fever-flush was mounting high in his face again, and his thin arms were wrapped over his cramping, traitorous stomach. His throat had to still be raw from nausea. But his attention never wavered and the expression he gave her was one she would never forget: there was exhaustion in it, and pain, lonely endurance and age-old knowledge, his eyes ancient in a deceptively young face; but there was hope, too, humor and love, resolve and a deep, unshakeable desire for life. "No. No, Iselin Elaine Farris-Faraday, it's not a mystery. You find a way to _live_. Long or short, bright or dark, up and down, little moments and big. It's living that matters. Life and the people you meet along the way. And love. Never forget love." He held her eyes even as chills began to shake his frame again, and the color drain from his face. "Remember that. I charge you to live, in the names of Aneiron and Asklepios, and I will do the same." And he drew her head down with trembling but oddly sure hands and brushed his lips against her forehead, a kiss that tingled on her skin.

His fever mounted then, riding him like the Hunter his mare at the head of the Wild Hunt, fierce and all-consuming. Then the sky brightened, light tearing through the clouds, and it was as if that hour of clarity and calm had never been.

The day followed the previous night's pattern: waves of hot and cold building to a peak of fever, disorientation and hypersensitivity that would then break, leaving him limp but lucid. Running not quite in synch was a cycle of acute cramping and nausea followed by a period of unresponsiveness more akin to unconsciousness than sleep, from which he would wake thirsty, aching and increasingly weak. Lane was trying to plot the two cycles, but he didn't have enough data. They all took turns sitting with him. When the sun started climbing down the sky again, Iselin took over from Dorcas after a quiet but forceful conversation.

"Dorcas says you should be in hospital. And that you agree." Iselin sat down in the chair at the side of the bed and possessed herself of one of his hands. His fingers were cold. He looked fragile and pale under the bright quilt, and the overhead light picked out every ridge and shadow in his face. His mouth was pinched with pain. It made her heart hurt.

His hand turned until he was holding hers, his thumb resting softly on the thin skin of her wrist. "I do," he said quietly.

"I don't understand. I thought..." For a moment, Iselin was twelve again, at her great-aunt's bedside, beseeching her (the woman who loved her, who was a mother to her, who had picked her up and dusted her off and seen to it that she had food and clothes and shelter and so much more when things 'hadn't worked out' with the whole 'family thing' and the people who had birthed her disappeared from her life) not to go to the hospital, not to leave her. Auntie Pru had died in that hospital. Was that why the idea so upset her? "I thought you felt safe here, that we could keep you safe and take care of you."

"I am safe here. You gave me that. But I can't stay. I can't ...." He closed his eyes and grimaced as another wave of fevered pain began to rise. "... say the same." His chest heaved with the effort to speak. "I know ... some of ... what's coming. Don't ...." His hand tightened around hers and he curled into the pillow, breathing hard and short, muscles locked and trembling with tension for a long moment as the pain crested. Then the spasm began to ease and he caught another breath. "Don't let me ...." He forced his fingers to unclench, letting go with difficulty. Her wrist ached and her hand was white from the unconscious violence of his grip. His eyes widened with fear and his words came in a rush when he saw the marks. "Don't make me do that to you." His voice shook and he pulled his hands to his chest, huddling away from her, facing the wall. "Don't. Please."

"But, I'm fine. This is nothing."

His head moved on the pillow, eyes returning to her wrist. "It's only the beginning." There was a tired finality in his voice, a resolve that was not at all resigned. "And it's my battle. You cannot fight it for me. I'm sorry." With an effort he turned on his side, facing the wall.

Iselin felt Elliott's hand on her shoulder. The tense curve of Alun's back, the bent angle of his head, his defenseless nape bared to her gaze made her want to cry. She turned to look up at Elliott's craggy, sympathetic face, her chin trembling, and then stood, stepping restlessly away from the bed. "Can't we ...?" Tears threatened and she dashed them away with a jerky swipe of her unbruised hand. "I _promised_ him!" burst out of her tight chest. She was tired. It had been a long couple of days. She was _not_ going to cry. She was not _twelve_.

Elliott folded her into his arms. He smelled of woodsmoke and flannel and the coming winter wind.

"I said we'd take care of him. I _promised_" She said into his shirtfront.

"Isey, we may of picked him up, but we can't put him back together. We done what we could, an you know he's grateful for it. You 'n Caro fixed his feet right smart. But we don't have what he needs for what's hurtn' him now. He needs medicine an' all them things what hospitals can do. He said so. You heard 'im." Elliott's embrace was clumsy but comforting. "Let 'im go, Isey. Hope'll keep 'im safe too."

Elliott was right. Alun was right. She nodded, sniffed, and said in a muffled voice "I know. I just..." She lifted her head again. "I promised."

"And you've held that promise. We'll get him safe to where he _can_ get taken care of. It's alright not to like it."

Iselin heaved a sigh and hugged Elliott back before stepping out of the circle of his arms. She returned to the bed, where it seemed sleep had give Alun a brief respite from distress. She arranged the quilt more warmly around his shoulders and let her hand rest a moment on the side of his face. He didn't stir. "It's okay. And I'll remember what you said. But I want you to remember too." She bent down and brushed a kiss to his temple. "Live" she whispered. "_You_ keep on fighting for that. And I will too."

Then Iselin straightened up and made herself go get the seldom-used telephone to call for the county health services to send the mobile paramedics with the transport van. It would be better than trying to drive him to Hope themselves in Lane's jalopy or the household truck.

* * *

Iselin watched the ambulance bump its way down the rutted drive with slow care and sent her thought out after the suffering man it was carrying away out of their life almost as abruptly as he had entered it. The swift evening of late autumn was making the last red and gold leaves on the trees burn in the low light, and she could hear Dorcas bustling behind her, setting out the candles. Iselin had looked on Dorcas' insistence on putting candle-shaped lights (Myrtle and Dorcas had had a long and obscure debate on shape and brightness and several other points that Iselin had not followed when Caroline — who had a horror of unattended flame — had insisted on electric candles) in at least one window of every side of the house as something to be tolerated, indulged, looked on and smiled over fondly.

But that silly electric candle had led that man — Adam, Alun, Ben, so many names, all real, all somehow him but equally not quite entirely him, none the deepest truest name that Iselin knew he must have — to the safety of their doorstep. Iselin would never look on or take that little ritual so lightly again. She knew, watching the glimmer of tail-lights finally vanish into the trees, that every evening going forward, she would not only think of all the lost ones seeking safe harbor, but she would think of him, and while she might or might not _believe_ everything he had said in that strange, surreal conversation in the cold hour before dawn, she _would_ remember what he had said about living, the charge he had given them both. She would remember _him_, sending light and hope out to him wherever he might go or be.

* * *

  


* * *

Jonathan Chambers was a doctor first, a Watcher second. A distant second. But when young Josh (oh, Dr Joshua Ivers MD, by the testimony of his diploma, with honors no less, and a properly accredited intern of this fine institution, but it was impossible to think of him as other than simply Josh) paged him over to the patient the county response unit had brought in at the beginning of the shift, it was his Watcher instincts that first rang bells. Josh had not bandaged his draw-sites — the bright orange flexible bandage that Pat had stocked the urgent care unit with in honor of the season was nowhere in evidence, and would have been difficult to miss.

Jon catalogued the man automatically before looking at the intake sheet Josh handed him: white male, late twenties/early thirties, severely underweight, muscle tremors, rapid and erratic respiration, elevated pulse, elevated temperature (flushed, sweating), mild cyanosis and probable anemia, apparently conscious but non-responsive. Not responding to Josh at any rate. The sunken eyes looking at him seemed aware enough at the moment, though glazed with pain and squinting against the light. His skin was dry and pasty where it wasn't wet with sweat, but otherwise unmarked. Too unmarked. Not a scratch on him, and most of him was visible; the pajamas he'd been wearing folded in an untidy heap at the foot of the gurney. But if he was Immortal — and there was something familiar about him, something about the nose and the wry twist of his mouth, lips pressed in a tight line that ought to curve — what was he doing ill? And ill enough to voluntarily enter a hospital as a patient? _His_ Immortal, Patrick, would hardly set foot in the door except to extract Jon for golf.

A look through the forms on the clipboard showed that Josh had done his usual thorough and complete job. Chambers flipped back to the much hastier pages from the response team – the patient had been lucid at least part of the time, capable of answering simple questions — name: Alun Adams; age: 29, etc. He'd been able to swallow, exercise control over bladder and bowels even while vomiting (unproductive – no note as to when he had last eaten solid food) though mildly disoriented and unable to say where he had been before the Hallowdell residents had taken him in. Unable to rise or sit unaided. Reporting generalized pain both chronic and acute, dizziness, tinnitus, occasional blurred vision and neuropathy of both hands and feet. He turned back to where Josh had written in his preliminary diagnosis. Poisoning was a plausible starting point, the kind of poison where too little became a problem rather than too much.

Jon counter-signed it and handed the clipboard back to Josh. "Have the lab do a complete workup, and not just the usual chemical suspects, but the full spectrum: synthetics and exotics as well. Look for long-term and slow-acting. The folks at Hallowdell may be eccentric, but Myrtle Fredericks knows her herbs. Whatever it is he's coming off of didn't come from her garden."

"Yessir. Um…." Josh had no idea who Myrtle might be, but he forged onward, lowering his voice, "I think he's a live one, sir. But if he is, he's really messed up. It took, like, more than a minute for the needle-stick to heal — just like the vid only in slow motion."

Chambers nodded slowly. It fit with what he had already observed. He'd seen that film as well, had advised on the material for the Academy class. There had been that unfortunate researcher — Peters? Patterson? He was hopeless with names — who'd found himself suddenly on the other side of the Watcher-Immortal divide, and it had been touch and go for a while there as to what the Tribunal was going to do about it. But Dawson had put his foot down (well, metaphorically) and reminded them that they were not Hunters, but civilized human beings, and it had all worked out. It couldn't have been pleasant being filmed as well as poked and prodded and measured every which way, but they had let him go, and his face _had_ been edited out of the footage. Jon and Joe had both made sure of that.

"Do you suppose he could be new? Like, this was his first time and he still isn't quite, um, all the way back yet? I mean, he's really in pain. That's stuff you can't fake. And why would anyone _want_ to? You'd think the best part would be never getting sick."

"They can get sick, Josh. They just don't die of it, not for long. You need to finish reading Gillespie and Takamura. Now, I do think he's a young one, but even an initial revival doesn't present like this. As to his current difficulties, admittance is certainly in order — a single room, I think, on the medical ward. Let me have the forms again." Josh handed them to him and Jon wrote rapidly for a moment. "We will need to see what the lab says, and what he can tell us himself."

Jon was very aware of the patient, the person lying quietly observant on the narrow gurney. If this young man was anything at all like Patrick, the mere fact of being helpless would be as distressing as being sick. (And how _did_ you slow-poison an Immortal? What could possibly be hindering the healing process? His medical curiosity was as aroused as his sympathy.) "Josh, see about getting Mr Adams" (Adam? _That_ was the name — Adam P-something) "admitted while I do what I can to make him more comfortable."

As Josh took the forms and himself over to the admitting desk, Jon's mind played hopscotch with the data points he had, coming to a conclusion he discovered himself surprisingly reluctant to voice. He looked down at the drawn face, stark on the hospital linens. Shadowed green-gold eyes were watching him, and Jon resisted the impulse to tug at his cuff. He didn't have a tattoo to hide (Josh did, but it had been incorporated into a fairly complex design the lad already had, hidden in plain sight) and if he did, it wouldn't matter. Researchers had access to the active lists. Adams would know who Jon was. His expression was wary, uncertain and a little afraid, waiting for what Jon would choose to do. He looked terribly young. And whatever else, he was very ill. Really, it was no choice at all.

"Mr Adams, I'm Jon Chambers. I'll be your doctor." Jon did not miss the way the lad's mouth relaxed at his very slight emphasis on that last word. Doctor, not Watcher. "Josh over there, Dr Ivers, he'll be working with me." Jon pointed with his chin; Adams' eyes followed the gesture, still wary but not as frightened, and returned to Jon's face.

Josh seemed to be having some difficulty with the admitting nurse, a tall woman of upright carriage, strong opinions and a regal demeanor, recently transferred in from somewhere down the Valley. She had very cold hands, Jon recalled. Nurse Salter. Strong-minded nurses were a fact of medical life, and Josh was still learning how to cope with them, but if it was an issue that affected the patient, that was another matter. He listened, prepared to step in.

"Doctor Chambers said Medical, not Psychiatric, an' it's 'substance unknown,' not 'abuse'. You're makin' 'im out t' be a criminal. An' that's a mandatory report there's no call for." Josh was losing his consonants, but hadn't given up the fight. Persistence was one of his virtues.

"I know strung out when I see it, doctor, and no junkie is getting a free pass in my hospital. That flag stays." Her voice brooked no argument. Chambers could certainly understand why all the interns and half the techs called Nurse Salter 'Miss Exalted', though not to her face or where the patients might hear. Josh was standing up to her remarkably well, all things considered. "Now, I've put him in 207-B. He'll have a window, and Dr Chambers as his Attending. And, unless Mr Adams is only the first of a drug-addled horde, he'll have the room to himself. But he won't be signing himself out, and he won't be having his druggie friends parading through getting him worked up or worse yet, high." She tapped the charge-sheet with an emphatic talon. "Any visitor will have to be authorized by Dr Chambers or the psychiatric supervisor, and no more than two at any one time." She condescended to smile and concluded magnanimously, "Anyone who is approved will have access during visiting hours, and at other times on Dr Chambers' order. And on his responsibility. Have a pleasant evening, Dr. Ivers."

Josh retreated, bloodied but unbowed, muttering something inaudible that undoubtably had to do with the downtrodden lot of interns. Jon suppressed a rueful smile. Ms Salter's inflexible attitude toward those she perceived to be addicts was frustrating, but in this case would be useful — the security protocols on the psychiatric ward would keep Mr Adams safe from anyone who might be interested in his head, at least in the short term. And as for the Watcher aspect to his continuing education, what better opportunity for Josh to test his skills than on an unknown immortal under reasonably controlled circumstances. Now Jon did smile. It would be very informative to see how the boy handled the situation.

A small movement brought Jon's attention back to the present and his patient. He found a different smile for his charge, soft but no less genuine. "Is there anything you need? Water?" Adams was undoubtably dehydrated as well as in pain, and he was starting to shiver again. "I can't give you anything for pain until we know more. But I can get you a blanket." Jon suited word to deed, pulling the sheet back up and unfolding the blanket over him, tucking it around gaunt shoulders and wasted limbs. It was surprisingly comforting to know that whatever this was, whatever had happened to this lad, he should recover fully. That didn't lessen the insult of his current suffering, though.

"Water. Please." Adam's voice was a dry rasp.

Josh materialized at his elbow, paper cup already filled and straw bent. Adams took a couple of cautious sips. One of the orderlies was on his way over, preparing to unlock the gurney wheels and take Adams to his room.

Jon touched his hand gently to Adams' blanket-wrapped shoulder, feeling the trembles that did not show in the young man's face. "We'll get you well, lad. You are safe here."

"Thank you."

Jon didn't think he imagined that there was more in that quiet phrase than simple gratitude for care.

* * *

  


* * *

"Joe? Joe Dawson? I've got a live one."

Joe took a stronger grip on the handset of the phone. The voice on the other end of the line was not one he knew, though the name on the caller ID - Josh Ivers - was familiar from the Watcher List. "I'm listening." Having a 'live one' was code for 'immortal in a hospital or other medical situation, please advise.' In this young voice it sounded like innocuous slang and not the potential emergency it was.

"This is Josh, Josh Ivers? I'm at the Fraser Canyon Hospital? In Hope, you know? I'm doing my internship and field-study under Dr Jonathan Chambers?"

Joe made an 'I hear you' noise. He might not know Josh, but he certainly knew Jon Chambers. A watcher after his own heart, part-time Watcher, full-time doctor, and good friends with his nominal assignment. Jon and Patrick Thurston (200+ [assumed; birth date unknown], came overland with either Mackenzie or Fraser, birth culture unknown but probable European or Colonial New World, first death unknown, first teacher unknown) played golf together every Wednesday afternoon when Patrick was in town. It made the Tribunal crazy. Joe just laughed.

"Well the district services mobile clinic people brought this guy in from one of the outlying areas. You'd've thought they'd've called for a helicopter, but they came by road, and he's really messed up."

The young man paused for breath, or to gather his thoughts (possibly both — this was not the most concise report Joe had ever heard). Chambers was notorious for disliking the cumbersome official reporting process, though he was scrupulous about making sure his field-trainees learned it. Usually his own reports were cheerful, chatty emails, full of golf scores, greens-conditions and amusing anecdotes of medical diagnosis and the human condition. His intern's reports, however, were models of style and clarity, annotated and footnoted. If Jon was having Josh call the Area Supervisor, there had to be more to the situation than was so far apparent. Joe waited with growing concern for Josh to get to the point and made an encouraging, enquiring noise.

"Oh, nothin' terminal — no 'Night of the Living Dead' or anything exciting like that."

Joe grimaced and forbore sighing. Josh sounded like he was almost disappointed that he had not gotten to see an actual revival-from-the-dead. Jon no doubt had told him of his own recruitment, after having Patrick revive from the dead as he was about to officially declare him so. It was a good story, and Jon told it well. Usually with Patrick laughing and inserting comments and commentary over his shoulder. Most people assumed the joke had been on Jon.

"But I was doing the intake blood-draw on him? And it was exactly like the film they show, only it was kind of in slow-motion. I did the second tube separate, just to make sure, you know? And it happened again, only still really slow. I thought that things like needle-sticks were supposed to heal so fast you never saw it, but maybe he's really new or whatever messed him up is doin' something to him. _Anyway_, the reason Dr Chambers had me callin' instead of sending through the regular channels is 'cause, well, he's not one of the Known to be in the Area, or on the Known list at all s'far as we can tell? But he looks kinda familiar, like I _oughta_ recognize him. And I think the Doc _did_, but he wasn't helpful," he grumbled, "just told me it was a 'learning experience' and to "use my ingenuity and initiative.' How'm I supposed to do that if he won't _tell_ me anything? So I figured you'd know if anyone did. An' Doc said go ahead and call. Anyway, this guy, he's got a nose you can't miss, you know? And cheekbones you could about cut yourself on."

Joe had to stop himself from responding to every upward inflection in the young man's speech. He wasn't asking questions, or even waiting for a reply. When Josh did stop, Joe found himself with nothing to say — that artless description produced a image that looked a whole lot like a certain Ancient, Whereabouts Currently Unknown. (In certain circles 'Adam Pierson' was understood to be a new Immortal, but he didn't have a Watcher, and he _wasn't_ on the general lists.) Joe swallowed and made an effort to ask levelly "Do you have a name? Any other information?"

"The intake form has him down as 'Alun Adams'. 'A-L-U-N.' One of the nurses says it's Welsh. Dark hair, pale skin, maybe six-foot. Didn't get an eye-color." The youthful voice hesitated a moment, then went on with a note of uncertainty. "Doc got him put in a single-double, by himself, but it's in the psych-ward, and his chart has a 'substance abuse' flag, even though the tests aren't back yet and what I put in for a diagnosis is 'possible poisoning, substance unknown.' But what do I know, I'm only an intern." Now it was frustration that colored Josh's tone, and Joe realized that while he was unsure as a Watcher, Josh was perfectly confident of his medical skills, justified or otherwise. And Chambers was not known for his patience with fools. No reason to think the boy anything but competent. "Doc signed off on it, I don't know why 'Miss Exalted' had to be going and putting things in the record that'll be a hassle to get rid of."

Josh sighed heavily, and Joe couldn't help smiling at the put-upon note that went with the exasperation. The Old Man — if it was the old man — did have a way of invoking that emotion. Occasionally through no fault of his own.

"But I know it can't be good to have one of our guys in a hospital at all, much less one he can't sign himself out of — the world really ain't ready to hear about folks as live forever, way too like to cause a panic, and then where'd we be? So I thought, if you could look and see if he's listed at all, or if he's really really new, and give me some advice here. The Doc is sayin' I should handle this like I was flyin' solo."

There was another pause and Joe was just about to say something when Josh went on, his voice low and even more tentative, "And, well, Mr Dawson, I know you are on terms with your MacLeod, like the Doc is with Mr Patrick — well, not _exactly_ like, but friendly-like — and Mr Patrick doesn't take students. If Alun Adams really is brand new, he could do a lot worse than MacLeod for a teacher. An' this hospital isn't holy ground. If he _isn't_ new, that's gotta be anxious-making."

Joe agreed wholeheartedly with that last observation, and in theory with the first, though he knew that Duncan was far from recovered from the loss of Richie, despite the amount of time that had passed. He was not about to take on a student, even if Alun Adams proved to be the new immortal Josh thought him. The idea of Methos as Duncan's student was enough to make him laugh if the situation were less serious. "You got that right, kid. New or not it sounds like the man can use our help." The idea of Methos trapped off holy ground, weaponless and somehow damaged, made his blood run cold. "I'll take a look at my records, and send what I have that might be helpful. Which email address do you want me to use?"

"Thank you Mr Dawson. I really appreciate it. The snugharbor address would be best. An' I'll be sure t' keep you updated." Relief was palpable in Josh's voice. "I really wanna make sure he's ok, you know?"

"Call me Joe, Josh. You're doing just fine. This kind of thing is what the Watchers are supposed to be about — having a care for the Immortals we observe. I appreciate you calling, and I'll be in touch."

"Thanks, Joe, I'll look for that email. 'Bye now!"

* * *

Gently, Joe put down the phone, thinking hard. 'Adam' was one of Methos' jokes, a name he had used in various forms. Adam Pierson had gone to school in Wales (actually, physically attended St Albans and earned a degree there; Methos had gone to a great deal of trouble to set up that identity). But Jon would have recognized Methos as Pierson, wouldn't he? Josh had been recruited some time after Adam Pierson had 'discovered' himself to be Immortal — and hadn't that been a three-ringed circus, and come perilously close to blowing up in all their faces. Jon had had a hand in making it all come out right, though Joe didn't think they'd ever actually met. Although Methos had been wholly and completely 'Adam Pierson, mild-mannered watcher and out-of-his-depth researcher' every moment of that horrible time, there was still the tape. Duncan hadn't been around for that, and just as well.

However, as a direct result of that caper, Joe was Adam Pierson's medical advocate and legal proxy of record, official Power of Attorney and all. Hope wasn't much more than a hundred miles away. He had to know. Methos had been gone too long. Patrick Thurston had never been a headhunter, but the same could not be said of some of the others that found the wide spaces of Canada congenial. And other Immortals were certainly not the only danger, even to as canny a survivor as the Old Man. A few keystrokes and he had a map and directions. A few more and credentials were printing. If Alun Adams wasn't Methos, he was still Joe's responsibility as Area Supervisor, and a man who needed help.

For a moment, Joe considered calling MacLeod, but the disappointment if it were not Methos would be too great. Duncan would feel obliged — or that he _ought_ to be obliged — to take on Adams as a student. Joe just couldn't do that to the man. And if it were Methos, hurt, damaged, dangerous when cornered, then Joe needed know more of the whole situation before he brought Mac in. Mac was all too likely to go off half-cocked if one of his clan was in distress.

No. No point in involving Mac until he had more information. Stiffly, Joe levered himself up from his desk and went to make arrangements with Mike for the bar. He already had a bag packed in the car. He always did.

Hang in there, old man. Hang on 'til I can get there and haul your ass out of the fire. Assuming it is your ass, for it most surely is a fire.

* * *

Traffic was light and Joe made good time. Having called from the road and left a message for Chambers, Jon met him in the main lobby and led him to his small office. Joe sat gratefully in the chair at the side of the desk while Jon took the one behind it, fiddling with a pen. He had said nothing beyond pleasantries — though those had included the unexpectedly welcome news that Jon had taken the liberty of booking a room at the Heritage Inn for him, just down the road. One less thing for Joe to worry about. When Joe was settled, Chambers gusted a sigh. "I'm glad you came up, Joe. I'll take you to see him in a moment, but there are things I need to tell you privately. We've a situation here, and no mistake. I've got one of the nurses here champing at the bit to call in the authorities."

Joe winced.

"I'm holding her off so far, since there is little physical evidence — and what there is, is extremely ambiguous and should be gone pretty much entirely in the next few hours. I have to say, Joe, that watching that in slow motion is very strange. My only theory is that the chemical cocktail he was being given — I don't think he could have been administering it himself — interferes with the healing mechanism and allowed the other components to operate. I've identified a very strong opiate and the markers of at least one very nasty psychoactive. The poison appears to be breaking down slowly. Indications are that he was receiving large doses on a regular basis for some time, more than a year, possibly as long as two."

In the brief silence, Joe studied his hands, resting on the curve of his cane. He had no trouble hearing what Jon wasn't saying. He'd had his own experiences with narcotics, and Immortals were no more immune to the effects of habituation than mortals. Witness Brian Cullen, and Byron. For that matter, there was Methos' own time as Benjamin Adams. The Chronicles were depressingly full of similar accounts.

After a moment, Chambers went on. "So far our Mr Adams hasn't said much of anything at all, certainly nothing that would require invoking the mandatory reporting statutes. The good folk at Hallowdell who found him had little to say either — apparently he appeared on their porch in the middle of the night, naked as a jaybird, feet cut to the bone from running an unknown distance through the back country forest. His feet are still not entirely healed, and that was two days ago. No names, no accusations. But, this isn't the first time someone's come out of those woods in bad shape. There's something going on, that _will_ need to be rooted out and stopped, and it's quite possible that the 'New Sons of Balor' will come after the one who got away, if they think he's still alive. Patrick's up in Whitehorse, won't be back for a week. He can't ... I can't ask ...." Jon scrubbed a restless hand through his hair. "The lad needs an advocate, someone who can watch out for him. A bodyguard."

The sheer incongruity of the idea of him — Joe Dawson, barkeep and Watcher — as a bodyguard to any immortal surprised a snort out of Joe. "Advocate I can do — assuming it is who you think it is, and not some random unfortunate, and we can finesse the paperwork —" Jon waved the technical difficulty away. Joe gave him a sour look. "But bodyguard is stretching it, you know. Not that the spirit isn't willing."

"I know, Joe. I know." Chambers pushed back his chair, stretched and stood. "What he needs most is the time and space to heal. He needs to know he's safe, and in friendly hands. He needs to have someone he trusts looking out for him, running interference. A familiar face. And I _know_ how stubborn you can be. Not to mention being entirely wise to the ways of nurses."

Joe snorted again, but he was smiling too. "Yeah, well. Long experience will do that." He hauled himself up, careful of his balance. He wasn't used to driving for long stretches, and his body was telling him so.

Jon was at the door. "Come on. Let me take you to him."

* * *

Joe had known he could pick Duncan out of a crowd with little more to go on than the curve of a jaw and the angle of an elbow. He hadn't realized that he could recognize Methos on less. He knew the shape of that skull, that tilt of shoulder, and there was no question but that that turned back belonged to the 'World's Oldest Man,' no matter that his face was turned away and blankets were pulled up around his ears. When Joe got close enough, he could see that Methos was shivering. He remembered feeling chills that had nothing to do with cold, heat that prickled and buzzed under the skin. Withdrawal was an affliction where Immortal healing was not necessarily an advantage.

Methos was awake; Joe could hear it in the sharp cadence of his breath, see it in the tension in his neck. When Joe was in pain, it wasn't sympathy he wanted, it was distraction. Something to take his mind off of discomfort and give him something else to focus on.

He cast about for something to say, mind completely blank of opening gambits. Very faintly through the wall came the mutter of a television. There had been a game on several half-glimpsed screens on the walk over from Jon's office. "So, Alun, how about them Seahawks?"

The figure on the bed went completely still for a moment. A hoarse voice said incredulously "Joe?" He turned in the sheets. "You came ... two hundred miles ... to talk about ... football?" It was too long a sentence for a throat raw and dry. The last word dissolved into a cough that shook Methos like a leaf, but did not dim the very real joy in his face. He waved off Joe's instinctive supporting hand, but accepted the proffered water. He took a cautious sip while Joe held the cup.

"It was only a little over a hundred. This is Hope, not Kamloops." Joe put the cup back on the table and groped for the chair, sitting heavily. He hoped that he'd managed to keep the dismay out of his voice. Jon had not overstated the seriousness of Methos' condition. Joe doubted he would be able to lift a sword, much less wield one in his current state.

"That bad, eh?" Methos' tone was wry, his eyes sympathetic.

Joe puffed out a breath, getting a grip on his feelings. "Yup." He should know better than to expect to fool Methos. He _did_ know better. "Jon warned me, but...."

Methos pulled the blankets back up around his shoulders and settled back in the nest of pillows. "Thought so," he said lightly. "But you're the first to actually say so." A somber note entered his voice. He was perfectly aware of the implications. "Fortunately, it _is_ temporary."

Joe nodded. Methos' breath stuttered, and his hands tightened, then eased as the spasm passed. In the small silence Joe asked "'Alun Adams'? I thought you were keeping Pierson around a little longer."

"It just came out. I was ... trying to remember. Alun was ... a long time ago. Iselin put Alun and Adam together." Methos swallowed, looking suddenly disoriented, unfocused. "I don't know who Alun Adams is yet. Not someone I planned."

"Who do you want him to be?" Joe was fascinated by the idea.

A long tremor shuddered through Methos; his face flooded with color as sweat sprang at his temples and throat. His breath was a pant, quick and shallow. His eyes were wide and blind and terrified, seeing some other place.

Joe ventured to repeat the question, hoping to bring Methos back from wherever he was inside his memories. "Who would you like Alun Adams to be?"

"Does it matter? It's not like he's real. None of them are real. Not Adam, not Ben, not Alun or James or Matthew. Names on a page. He told me I was delusional. Tried to make me believe it. That all my lives were an illusion. That _I_ was an illusion. And I believed it. I believed him, Joe!"

There was an edge of despair in his voice that had Joe reaching instinctively to take Methos' hand, to give him an anchor, a point of human contact. He looked lost, sick and bewildered. Joe remembered that psychoactives were among the chemicals Methos had been subjected to. This had to be an echo, a flashback, a lingering artifact.

"Ephemeral figments of a mythical old man. That's all any of them were. Adam the most unreal of all." He'd closed his eyes, curling in on himself. "Never real. Never knew you."

This was a distress on an entirely different order than the physical, a canker that ate at the sense of self. Anger burned hot in Joe's breast that Methos — _Methos_ — should have been brought to this, uncertain of the foundations of his self. Or at any rate his most recent self. That was disturbing enough.

"What if he was right? What if ...."

"Oh, don't give me that. I know you, remember?" Joe interrupted sharply. He wasn't about to let Methos fall into that morass. He gripped Methos' hand tighter. Methos blinked and shuddered again, gasping, struggling to return to the present. He was listening as if Joe's words were a lifeline, dragging him out of the stifling dark, Joe's breath the thread guiding him out of the maze of memory and illusion and pain. Perhaps they were. Joe felt a fierce and sudden tenderness, to be so trusted by this untrusting man, to know that his love and care, words and presence mattered, made a difference to Methos. He took a deep breath and settled his shoulders, gripping the metaphorical rope more tightly and went on.

"Adam was — is — just as real as anyone else you've ever been. Realer than some 'mythical oldest man' certainly." His exaggerated air-quotes with his other hand brought a hint of a smile to Methos' eyes, distraction from the pain that was pinching his face and shortening his breath. Joe went on, voice light but meaning every word. "I knew Adam for fifteen years." Joe looked off in the distance for a moment, remembering the gawky, eager, shy and brilliant grad-student, the dedicated Watcher-researcher, the Watcher-Immortal defending friendship. The man who loved Alexa, who risked everything he was to bring Duncan back out of the darkness. "You re-invent yourself every day. Everyone does, more or less. You just do it with more awareness, and a lot more practice than most. The persona, the name, that doesn't matter. It never mattered. _You_ matter to me. The rest — the legends, the names, the stuff you might or might not have done in the past, that's not what really matters. Oh, it's _interesting_" — his eyes met Methos' and a smile ghosted between them, playful and acknowledging — "useful, important in its own way. But the chronicles, the stories, the journals matter because they are a part of you, your words and thoughts and feelings, not because they _are_ you. It's _you_ that matters. You know that."

"Wise Joe." Methos was fading, strength receding like the tide. Joe had to lean close to hear, his voice was so low. "You have no idea what that means to me." There was a nakedness in Methos' face, a vulnerability that went beyond the distress of his body. The defenses of movement, misdirection, sleight of hand and tongue and eye were stripped away, exposing the privacies of his spirit — scars and dreams, fear and love, the depths of his loneliness, the roots of his strength, the indomitable will to _keep going_ — to Joe's unjudging gaze. "I love you, too, Joe." Methos said, very simply.

Joe didn't have an answer for that. He let his hands speak for him, a warm clasp of the thin fingers, palm cupping the sharp curve of his shoulder. He knew Methos loved him. Methos had no patience for the idea that gender or age or anything else so trivial should have anything to do with who one loved — love was love, coming in many forms and expressions, of which sarcasm could be one and sex another, the act given weight by the love, not the other way around. It was a gift Joe had never taken lightly, and returned in full measure. He just didn't quite know how to respond to such undisguised sincerity. So he cleared his throat and squeezed Methos' shoulder again.

Joe could feel him trembling, long combers running through him, see the exhaustion in his face. Methos had expended what little reserve he had. Joe spoke very quietly. "Go to sleep, old friend. I'll be right here."

* * *

  


* * *

Duncan paced. Hospitals always made him uncomfortable, and the mere idea of _Methos_ being in one — needing one! — disturbed him even more. Joe had not been forthcoming, had discouraged him from coming up. It was only the Fraser Valley for pity's sake, not even half a day's drive from Seacouver, even with the new nonsense at the border. (And why had Joe waited until morning to call him, after driving half the night himself? They could have gone up together!) Apparently, Methos had been there (or close to there, Joe had simply shut his mouth when asked for more detail, and all Duncan's cajoling had gotten him nothing at all. Which said something right there, though Duncan wasn't quite sure what) the entire time he'd been gone. Two and a half _years_. And Duncan had thought him off enjoying someplace warm after the last time Duncan had gotten caught up in some cause and Methos had left him to it.

The waiting room at the end of the corridor was painted in colors that managed to be both cheerful and soothing, but Duncan hardly noticed. Nor did he pay more than passing attention to the art (original) on the walls, the comfortable couches and chairs (industrial standard), or even the wide view of mountains and autumn-turned trees from the window (spectacular). The woman at the desk had been sympathetic but uninformative. "Room 207 is resting comfortably" she had said, "but Dr Chambers as physician of record or Mr Dawson as his medical proxy must approve you as a visitor before I can let you see your friend. I am sorry for the wait, but the patient's well-being must come first. I've paged for Dr Chambers; I'm sure he'll be along soon. There's a coffee machine on the other side of the elevator, if you'd like some." She had smiled at him and gone back to her typing unruffled.

It was both heartening and disturbing that were being so careful; he hoped it meant there was no possibility of another Immortal, or — God forbid! a Hunter — reaching Methos, but it bothered him immensely that he had to wait to be approved.

So he paced, growing more and more anxious at the wait, trying not to imagine dire things. Joe hadn't been at the hotel, so Duncan assumed he was here, and as he wasn't in the waiting room, he was probably with Methos, where Duncan wanted — needed to be. Where Duncan should have already been. Where there should have been no need for either of them to be. His thoughts were spinning, careening about in his head, all questions and recriminations without answers. Fulminating in the back of his mind were angry thoughts, plans of vengeance and retribution on the ones who had dared lay hands on one of his own, dark impulses of rage and fearful images of being too late. Darius and Little Deer, Tessa and Fitz. Richie. All the dead he had failed to save. How could he possibly bear to lose Methos?

As if he _owned_ Methos. The dark places in his soul — the possessive, wordless, unreasoning places that had given root to the dark quickening, Ahriman, the rage and feeling of betrayal that had slammed Methos against the side of the car, grabbed his shoulders and sent Duncan's fingers digging for the nerves, that had given an edge to his words and force to his arm at more than one execution, and was nothing he was proud of — warred with his reasoning intellect, the sturdy, equally rooted belief that people _chose_ relationships, connections, courses of action, that nothing was fated, no end predestined, not even the Game. The thought of _anyone_ actually 'owning' Methos on a fundamental level was ridiculous. But the thought of Methos _gone_ — never to find his angular form draped over his furniture, hear his flexible voice raised in acerbic commentary or enthusiastic delight, never to see that long throat revealed in laughter, that mouth make love to a bottle of beer, those elegant hands make a point; never again to know that somewhere (across the room, across town, the other side of the planet, the other side of the _solar system_) there lived a man who had seen the darkest places of Duncan's soul and had not turned away — _that_ thought made desperation gibber and howl in Duncan's breast.

Abruptly, Duncan forced himself to stop, to stand at the window and look at the sky, the mountains tipped with snow, the burning-leaved trees. Just as he was finally achieving a hard-won measure of calm, there was a bustle at the doorway guarded by the desk. He turned to see Joe — leaning heavily on his cane, his hair seeming somehow whiter than Duncan remembered (when had he gone from grey to white? What _else_ had Duncan failed to notice?) emerging from the hallway. Following him was a rumpled, red-haired, energetic man who could only be Dr Chambers. The doctor was speaking forcefully with a statuesque woman (she over-topped the doctor by several inches, nearly as tall as Duncan himself) in nurse's scrubs, her expression almost as severe as her tightly pinned bun.

"I think we can agree," the doctor was saying, "that sedatives are useful, even necessary in some cases. That is not the case here. We do not have a complete history, and we cannot know what the interactions might be. As it is, he has suffered a setback. Injections are _clearly_ contraindicated in this case."

Joe was looking quietly furious, but his expression eased when he saw Duncan standing by the window. He began to make his way across the lobby toward Duncan. Dr Chambers steered the nurse toward the desk.

"I was acting on the standing orders for this ward, Doctor. For the good of all the patients," the woman said coldly, her diction very precise. "'All necessary measures will be taken to assure that patients code-flagged 1022, 1023 or 1027 be prevented from disrupting or compromising the care of themselves or others.' Sedatives are the standard and most mild of those measures." Her lips were pursed, but she didn't quite meet his eyes.

"I realize that, Ms Salter, and I respect Dr Naranji's expertise." Chambers gave no ground, his tone almost as chill as hers. "However, that order does not and should never have applied to this patient. I am sure that when he has a more complete understanding of Mr Adams case, Dr Naranji will concur."

Then he seemed to give himself a little shake, and looked over to where Duncan was standing beside Joe. The expression on his face immediately lightened. "Ah, you must be the Duncan MacLeod Mr Dawson spoke of. I'm Jon Chambers. We'll have you in to see young Alun in just a moment."

With that, Chambers stepped over to the counter with a brisk nod, drew himself to his full height, and smiled, a wide, unsettling and somehow faintly mischievous expression.

"And here is where I use my powers for good." Dr Chambers plucked a pen from the pot of pens and markers at the nurse's station and began busily writing. "I am removing this entirely unnecessary and erroneous 'substance abuse alert' 1027 flag from Mr Adam's file."

The nurse opened her mouth to object, but Chambers went on without stopping. "Yes, Ms Salter. I do know that requires a report, just as putting it on does. I have already written it and included it in the file. Which, by the way, does not yet have your report on why you decided, over Dr Ivers diagnosis of poisoning — which was entirely accurate, if understandably not complete — that Mr Adams should be treated as a 'suspicious person.' I expect to see it by the end of shift." He capped the pen and closed the file with something of a flourish. "Prudence is one thing. Prejudice that affects the well being of one of my patients is quite another."

Joe's eyes were savage over his smile. Ms Salter looked momentarily taken aback. (Duncan had never seen the woman before, but already this seemed to be an accomplishment on the doctor's part.) Even the cheerful desk-nurse was a little startled by Chambers' vehemence, though not at all disapproving. If anything, she seemed to be taking notes.

"Visitors will still need to be approved, but that is merely a precaution for _his_ safety. But no restriction is to be placed on Mr Adams own movements. If he wishes to visit the chapel, you will make accommodations. Is that clear?"

Nurse Salter nodded stiffly. "Yes, Doctor. Perfectly."

"Good!" Chambers turned to Duncan, dismissing her from his attention. "Now, Mr MacLeod — may I call you Duncan?" He enquired and went on almost before Duncan could nod, ushering them though the double doors and down the empty hall. "Duncan. Let me explain a little about Alun's condition, so you are not distressed unduly." The pace he set was comfortably slow without being obvious and Duncan's appreciation for the man went up yet another notch. Chambers lowered his voice. "He has been able to give us some of the particulars of his captivity. Not many, but sufficient to guide us in his treatment. Joe can give you more of the details later. Now, what you must understand...." Duncan listened intently to every word.

* * *

Even though forewarned, Duncan was unprepared for the sight that met his eyes when he rounded the corner and stepped through the door of room 207. Afternoon sunlight warmed the air and with merciless clarity picked out every knob and hollow, every angle and line of the ravaged form on the bed. Pillows supported a head that seemed too heavy for the long, vulnerable neck, crisp white sheets cradled limbs stripped of strength, no thicker than reeds, restless hands unnaturally still. He seemed unreal, an impressionist painting, a figure carved of bone and light, and not a living man at all. Only the song of his quickening — deep and subtle and strong, undamped and undisguised — proclaimed him alive, affirmed his name along every fiber of Duncan's being.

_Methos._

His dark head moved on the pillow, turning from the window. Brilliant, ancient eyes unclosed, burning with the spirit that animated that ivory flesh, those stark, enduring bones, and Duncan felt that gaze as a blow to his heart. He stumbled, breath stopped, and reached for the back of the chair set beside the bed to steady himself, keep back the cry that filled the spaces of his chest, the keen that threatened to tear his throat. Duncan's lips formed a single, soundless word, "Methos."

A recognizably sardonic eyebrow lifted and the familiar voice fell on his ear, "Alun, Mac. No mysteries here." Not loud, and a little breathless, but pure Methos. With that, Duncan's vision seemed to shift, the spell broke, and he could see the man in the bed, reduced to human suffering. Duncan blinked. The corners of Methos' mouth curled upward. "It's me, Mac," he said gently. "Just me, all present and accounted for." His smile tilted and he moved a little under the light sheet, spreading the fingers of one hand wide on the blanket. They looked extraordinarily long, pale and fragile. His ragged, close-clipped hair did nothing to disguise the stark bones of his skull. It was all too easy to see a death's head and not the living man. "Well, perhaps a little less of me than usual, but everything important is still attached."

Duncan gulped, a tumult of emotion rising to overwhelm him. "How can you _joke_ about it?" He managed to keep his voice down, but there was nothing he could do about the ragged thrum of desperation, of grief and guilt, worry and fear for his friend. "I should have been here for you, gotten here earlier. I should have _known_. I didn't even ask where you were going — I just let you _leave_. I shouldn't have let you. I should...."

Both of Methos' brows rose in pointed commentary — 'And you could have stopped me how?' they said clearly. He gathered in a breath, his throat working stiffly. Moisture gleamed at his temples. "My choice, Mac."

Words burst from Duncan, doing nothing to ease the constriction in his chest, "He could have killed you! He's killing you now! I wasn't ... I didn't ... I...."

Methos broke into the litany, cutting it short. "Not your fault, Highlander. Cut the lamentations. Not dead. Not _going_ to be dead. This," and he indicated the not-very-good shape his too-thin body was in with a movement of his hand "is merely a temporary inconvenience." Whereupon a cramp hit, as if giving the lie to his words by catching him by surprise and doubling him over. Duncan grabbed the hand that had been making the airy gesture, and Methos curled over, rode it out with a grip that would have bruised bone if Duncan were mortal. He hadn't thought Methos had that much strength in him. For a long moment the only sound in the room was Methos' short, hard breaths and the rustle of cloth as his body jerked and shuddered against the sheets. Duncan held on, making himself be still. There was nothing else he could do.

When the worst of the spasm passed, Methos grimaced and started to let go, but Duncan didn't release his hold, instead bringing up his other hand to enclose Methos' icy fingers in a warm clasp. Methos didn't fight him, merely flopped back against the pillows, dragging in deep and difficult breaths. Cold sweat dewed his skin, and he was starting to shiver. His lashes were like smudges of ink on his colorless cheeks. Bruises bloomed and faded on Duncan's hand, tingling faintly.

Duncan's heart twisted and he sat heavily in the plastic chair at the bedside. "I know that ... man ... drugged you, kept you drugged. But isn't there _something_ that will help? Can't they at least give you — I don't know — a small dose? Taper you off? Something?" He had so little personal experience with physical pain that lasted more than moments that seeing it in others always made him feel helpless, at a loss. Methos was taking this better than Duncan was, and _he_ was the one suffering.

Methos retrieved his hand and pulled the covers up around his shoulders. Expression grim, he spoke to the ceiling. "Believe me when I say that I would rather die over and over while this shit clears itself from my system than be subjected to one more hit of it, no matter how small. Even if I knew what it was. Which I don't, actually. Beside the opioid transport mechanism. Too many possibilities for the psychoactive component, and not enough for the healing-suppressive." His quiet voice was resolute, but detached. Duncan kept forgetting that Methos had been a doctor, and more than once. Methos went on before Duncan could say anything. "And it _won't_ kill me. Not even temporarily. And if it did, that would only slow down the process." Now he sounded disgusted. "The damned stuff doesn't process out when I'm dead. I just revive more slowly and a lot more painfully than usual. _And_ with all the artifacts still there. I tried that early on." Methos sighed and brought his glance down. Movement caught Duncan's attention; Joe had come in and was settling himself in the other chair, a notebook and pen on the table beside him.

"Hi, Joe." Methos' eyes rested on the journal, and Duncan could almost see the thin fingers twitch.

Joe noticed too, and held up the pen with a lopsided smile, sharp and fond at the same time. "I'm writin' as fast as I can, Alun. Gettin' it all down." A different kind of relief flickered across Methos' face and his hands relaxed. Joe widened his smile to include Duncan. "Mac."

_"You keep a **journal?**"_

_"I've been keeping one almost since writing began."_

It appeared that Joe was keeping the Methos Chronicle updated while Methos couldn't do it himself. Duncan was grateful, if only for the comfort it gave Methos. "Thank you, Joe."

"My pleasure." Joe's presence was undemanding, the quiet scratch of his pen a subtle counterpoint to the tick of the clock and the uneven rasp of Methos' breath. "You go on, don't let me interrupt. I'm here if you need anything."

Methos shifted again with a rustle of sheets, turning back to Duncan. "Where was I? Oh, right." He settled right back into his lecture-explanation mode. "Some of the compounds mimic elements that are supposed to be there, and that's where the problem comes in. One of the problems. They bind to receptor sites."

Duncan put his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hand, listening. Talking seemed to help — at any rate, Methos' color was better, even though he still looked unutterably weary, propped limply on hospital pillows. The mustard-yellow blanket only emphasized the shadows and hollows of his face. If Methos wanted to talk, Duncan was more than willing to listen. _Especially_ if it helped.

"There seem to be two things going on: chemical withdrawal and the purging process — a case of too much and not enough all at the same time." Methos' laugh was barely more than a breath, but it threatened to become a bout of painful retching. Duncan held his breath in sympathy for a long moment while Methos struggled to subdue the spasm. When it eased, Joe reached over and handed Duncan the long-necked water-bottle. Duncan helped Methos take a swallow, allowing him to speak again, a hoarse note roughening his words, pointing up the pauses between them.

The afternoon went on like that, evening turned to night, conversation broken by bouts of fever, nausea, cramp and chill. Moments when Methos' breath became a rasp, when his muscles locked and shook, when his long throat worked and no sound emerged, were followed by spaces of time when he lay limp, exhausted, motionless as brisk hands cleaned him, changed soiled sheets, settled fresh pillows under his head. Snatches of sleep, of ludicrous, low-voiced tales interrupted by stifled sobs of pain, patient sips of water to ease the dry mouth, the raw throat, and then a dogged return to the next point in the story.

Sometime during that long slide from evening into night, the bright sky outside the window shading to grey and indigo, Joe had chivvied him from the room, telling him to take a walk, to eat, wash his face, find some coffee, and he had gone to watch the stars appear one by one by one from a balcony overlooking the river. Every evening the stars were new, and yet they were the same stars that had shone since the earth first spun around the sun, the moon first rose. In every star he saw the light in Methos' eyes, the spark of his wit and spirit, the flickering personas and the persistent self that rose anew each day.

When he returned (fed, washed, windblown) it seemed like one of those stars had lodged itself in his breast, burning itself deep into his heart. Methos was asleep, torment for a moment eased, the clever mouth and, weary, young/old, all too-seeing eyes closed, relaxed, not even dream-disturbed. And Duncan realized in a moment of perfect clarity that what this was, was love — not adoration of the ancient, the artifact, the embodiment of history, not conservatorial diligence, painstaking and reverent, nor comradeship, the warrior tie of brotherhood — but simple, ordinary, extraordinary love: love for this difficult, contrary, terribly _human_ man.

Oh.

* * *

  


* * *

Duncan's Presence rang along his nerves, clean and bright. Pwyll to his Arawn, and he would know the touch of that quickening against his own anywhere, anywhen.

_Run, run, run toward, friendship thrives despite the sword_

He was better this morning, the worst of the narcotic withdrawal endured, and another measure of poison leeched out of his system in sweat and tears and all the other excreta a body was capable of. The night nurse had changed the sheets twice, and Duncan had held basin and bedpan without complaint until Madelaine had politely but inexorably made him leave and take Joe back to the hotel. Her brisk efficiency with a sponge-bath made Methos recall Caroline's gentle competence and Iselin's cheerful appreciation, but he was glad to be clean. Detoxification was a messy process, even for an immortal. The morning nurse — Patricia-call-me-Pat — had looked in on him earlier with a smile at his improvement and a deft hand with needle and syringe. Only one tube this time. He wondered what the results would be, but Alun Adams wasn't a doctor, and it was unlikely that they would tell him much. Joe would get the details, and he would record them. Medical power of attorney was a wonderful thing. He shifted against the pillows, settling his shoulders more comfortably. The plastic band on his wrist itched, and he could feel Duncan coming closer, hear the tap of Joe's cane under a murmur of voices. Chambers was due to make an appearance, and Josh would not be far behind.

_Welcome yule and winter's lord; fire warms both hall and board_

The late-season sun shone through the window, spilling light in lattices across the floor and the foot of the bed. Today's blanket was a kind of maroon. It reflected fire in Duncan's dark eyes as he held the door open for Joe; Josh and Chambers following after, as predicted. He felt the power of Duncan's quickening spark and rise to a peak against his own, then settle into a kind of heightened awareness, a warmth that traced lines on the tender new skin of his feet, infused heat into the knots in his back. He had forgotten what it was like to simply bask in that generous outpouring of energy. Solstice child indeed. But yesterday had not had much of basking about it. Duncan looked under-slept, though, and the faint air of exasperation under Joe's calm hinted at more Highland angst in the offing.

Curtain-rings rattled as Josh pulled the curtain around the bed; Duncan and Joe were not to be privy to the mysteries of a morning examination. It was wonder enough that they had been allowed in before the conclusion of early rounds. Perhaps it was that the doctor in Chambers wanted the watcher where he could see him.

Answering Chambers' questions and following his requests to sit and turn, cough and breathe deeply reminded him forcibly that while he was better, he certainly was not well. By the time the doctor had finished poking and prodding, listening closely and peering intently (and he was sure that Chambers-the-Watcher was _thoroughly enjoying_ the opportunity to get so up-close and personal with an immortal, even as Doctor Chambers was genuinely concerned with the health of Alun Adams, suffering the effects of an unknown substance or substances) he felt chilled and faint, his skin flinched from the touch of gown and sheet as Josh helped him back into the garment and under the covers, his belly threatened to cramp at the thought of swallowing even the simple electrolyte solution Chambers proffered as a reward for his improvement. He steeled himself and drank it, locking his throat and holding his breath until he was sure it was going to stay down. He'd had more than enough of throwing up over the last few days.

As soon as the curtain was pulled back, Duncan was at his side, concern tightening the broad shoulders and carving lines in that expressive face. Chambers was smiling as he peeled the gloves from his fingers. "You've made considerable strides, dear boy, though not out of the woods quite yet, I'm afraid. I'm going to authorize clear liquids and brief periods of sitting up, if you feel up to it."

There was a distinct twinkle in Chambers' blue eyes. Before he could open his mouth to ask, Chambers went on, "And yes, that does mean you may use the loo. Sitting, mind you, not standing, and _if_ you have help to and from. I'm _not_ happy with your strength just yet, but I know you young men well enough to know that you would try it without leave, and I don't want you falling." The doctor's glance turned to Duncan, who very nearly stood at attention. "I'm trusting you to not let him overdo."

"Yes, sir." There was the faintest hint of Scots shading Duncan's voice; more evidence of stirred up feelings.

Chambers nodded and gathered Josh in with a glance. "Now, I'm going to update your Mr Dawson, and we'll see how things look this afternoon after we have the results of your bloodwork. The chart, please, Josh." Chambers gave his shoulder a kindly squeeze. "We'll have you out of here soon enough."

He shivered, and for a moment Chambers' round face and blue eyes were overlain with a bearded lantern jaw and blazing black eyes, but there was no thumb digging into his collar-bone, and the grip was not followed with the thump-prick-scrape of the horse-syringe and the horrid, hot, seductive flood of whatever-the-hell it was that was shoved into him one, two, three times a day. He swallowed and tried not to flinch. The doctor let go with a little pat, eyes warm with sympathy, but said nothing, stepping away as he swallowed again, willing his stomach not to revolt. He breathed deeply, smelling clean-hospital smells and the elusive spice of Duncan's shampoo and aftershave, not damp wood and cheap incense, harsh lye soap imperfectly applied. He shuddered once more and opened his eyes (when had he closed them? Did it matter?) to Duncan hovering, having possessed himself of the chair and pulled it close. The nightmarish vision vanished in the warmth of Duncan's concerned brown gaze. But even Duncan's presence could not entirely allay his near panic at being unable to defend himself — it might be clean and bright and staffed with competent and caring people, Watchers no less, but it was still a hospital, and far from holy ground.

The Watchers would record — the names, the deeds, the victories and defeats, the lives touched and the lives lived, the loved ones lost and found, married and buried, the courage and cowardice and simple going on — but they wouldn't interfere. Their work was to witness, to carry the stories and remember the names. The man of his nightmares was nameless, as monsters were nameless. It was fitting that he be remembered as monster, not man. He let the long shudder disperse under the force of Duncan's concern.

"Are you all right? Can I get you anything? What was that? Is there something I can do?" Duncan was perilously close to babbling, deep voice rich with emotion: music to his ears and balm to his frayed and jumpy nerves.

_Life and hope sing in accord: love doth make the strongest ward_

"_Mac_" he said, reaching out his hand, (observing that despite the momentary flashback, his fingers trembled noticeably less than they had yesterday — he really _was_ getting better) and laying his fingers gently against Duncan's lips, damming the flow of words. "Yes, there is something you can do." He knew that Chambers and Josh and even Joe were Watching, but he didn't care. Only Iselin was absent, elsewhere, finding her own road, of the people who had helped (would continue to help) him on this journey out of the dark, but she would certainly approve.

_Run, run, run toward! Time will see the light restored._

Methos turned the touch of his fingers into a caress along Duncan's cheek, feeling stubble and warmth, concern and love under his still hypersensitive fingertips, and said simply, "Get me out of here, Duncan. Take me home."

The smile that broke over Duncan's face was answer enough.

Fin

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Rabbit Hole](https://archiveofourown.org/works/123671) by [lferion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion)




End file.
